


What Waits in the Garden

by BlackIris



Series: Steve Rogers 100th Birthday [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Drawing!Steve, F/M, Faeries - Freeform, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Reader-Insert, Steve Rogers 100th Birthday, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-04 17:49:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15152441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackIris/pseuds/BlackIris
Summary: Prompt: 13.6: Miscellaneous Prompts; in the Garden.





	What Waits in the Garden

“Go to the country side, they said. It’s relaxing and peaceful, they said.” Steve groans, tossing and turning in his bed. “Why did I listen to you, Tony?”

He continues to grumble to himself in the empty guest cottage that sits next to one of Tony’s summer homes.

Getting up he gets a glass of water from the kitchen and stares out into the darkness through the large bay windows overlooking the grounds.

Peaceful. Quiet. Solitary.

Just what he needs. Or so he and everyone thought. 

Unable to sleep in the silence that permeates his surroundings and his mind, he’s feeling foolish for being here. Hopefully a walk around the grounds will ease him enough to sleep.

Going down the stairs that lead to a large pond, several paths lay before him. Unable to pick one, Steve stops and looks to the sky. A large star winks at him and he decides to follow in it’s direction.

Moving lazily to the left of the pond and further into the garden, he comes upon a trellised arch way of vines that he hadn’t yet seen. The smooth dark green vines look nearly black in the twilight around him. Dead leaves crunch under the soles of his shoes, taking him back to Europe and the war of the past.

Feeling compressed by the arched herbed roof, he shakes his head free of the past, running through the remaining length of the trellis wishing to be physically and mentally free again.

Once he’s out in the open again, the gentle breeze grounds him back to reality. Lush beds of various greens and textures call to him.  Night blooming jasmine fragrances the air, calming him further.  His fingers itch for his pencils, the plant life calling him to be drawn, sketched, painted.

The longer he wanders, the more at peace he feels.

He comes across topiaries, intermittently dispersed throughout the garden. Some are small and others are larger.  All feel to be meticulous statements of aggressive influence over the garden.

The stars begin to fade, making way for a larger star to take over.  Soft tones streak through the sky as dew shimmers in the changing light.

Steve takes a deep breath feeling finally at peace, even if it is for but a moment. Perhaps being here is actually going to make a difference after all.

 

* * *

 

Sketches and water colors of various plants and flowers have been helping the last few days. But not nearly as much as he hoped. The highly manicured lawns and beds parallel his former restrictions and pain in life. Hoping to break free of this, regardless of its intended beauty, Steve moves farther into the garden than he ever has before. Near its edge, where the wild forest threatens to take back the manicured and perfected garden, he sees something new. Something out of an old world, out of a tale; a faerie ring. 

Steve remembers enough from the stories his mother told him, so many years ago, that he doesn’t go any nearer to it. Simply watches it from a short distance, wondering if it really was made by dancing faeries. 

He sits atop a large boulder nearby in the shade and begins sketching it.  The mushrooms’ tilts and curves easily being swept onto the page with flicks and drags of his pencil.  He gets lost in the motions, in concentrating on getting the curves  _just_  right. Things around him fade away. He no longer notices the songs of the birds, the breath of the wind, the chirp of the squirrels, not even the buzz of the bees. It’s only him, the evolving drawing, and the faerie ring. 

From behind a hawthorn tree, a pair of curious eyes watch him. Captivated by the peace that ebbs from him in the midst of his distraction. She doesn’t dare move closer, having never really cared for these human creature types that keep taking away her perfectly organic woodland; despite the fact that she loves the colors they’ve introduced in their heavy-handed approach to maintaining the land.

The corners of his mouth turn the slightest bit upward as he finishes the sketch. Her face mirrors his, a breathy laugh escaping from her lips.

Steve snaps back to reality, swearing that he’s heard something soft on the breeze. Looking around him, he is alone in the garden.

The hawthorn tree stands alone as it did when he first saw it.

 

* * *

 

Another day, another drawing.

Steve sighs to himself as he makes his way out into the garden. A small satchel over his shoulder, filled with various sketch pads and supplies. Hoping beyond hope to fine a new plant or a new something to take his mind from things. 

He wanders into a section outfitted by color. The cream and white flowers doing little to inspire him.  The reds reminding him of spilled blood. The pinks, no, far too sweet.  The yellows… too happy.

He makes his way to a smaller section of purples, stopping by some lavender, enjoying their scent and texture. Settling on the soft grass next to the plant he pulls out a smaller sketch pad and starts drawing away. 

He sketches the shrubby leaves at its base. Making longer wisps with flicks of his wrist for the stalks. Soon the small plant is taking over the page. The nubby scented blooms drawn lazily with curved scribbles and dotted circles.

Steve smiles to himself, making a mental note to draw it again before he leaves. Plucking a few flowers from the plant, he tucks them into his shirt pocket. Wanting to bring its calming essence with him as he continues to roam through the garden. 

Unknown to him, calm eyes grow concerned as they watch him pull at the plant. When he stops after three flowers, the worry washes away from her.

She’s taken to watching him when he wanders. Slowly she feels that she’s gotten to know him simply by the plants he seems to dote over and admire _.  Surely there’s some magic in him_ , she thinks,  _judging by how he captures the spirit of each plant he sketches and paints._

She watches over his shoulder many days, infatuated with his depictions of the plants she knows and loves by name. And today is no exception. She feels a force, pulling her toward him every time he enters the garden. 

Silently she slips away behind one of the larger topiaries, watching as he moves on to a different plant and then another. He stops in front of a grouping of foxglove. Soft purples bells with flecked deep purple and white on the interior, call to him, beg him to be painted.  The stacked flowers creating a loose pattern pleasing to his eyes.

He reaches out a hand to touch one, thinking for a moment with his body instead of his mind.

As he moves, so does she. Anger and concern rising in her blood. Her wings carry her toward him, leaving her hovering directly behind him. 

He drops his hand, fingers outlining, paralleling the soft curves of the flower stalk as he brings his hand slowly down.

She lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, his sudden softness resonates with her. Flittering away to a safe distance, she sits in one of the trees and watches him bring out a small easel and set up a water color pallet.

Time passes slowly as brush meets paint, meets paper. 

His painting swiftly turns into a truly unique piece. Impressionist in nature, colors blending, blurring, bringing a natural internal light and otherworldly life to it. 

She can’t tear her eyes away from it once it’s done. An urge she can no longer fight takes over, as a devious smile spreads across her angelic face.  She beats her wings rapidly, causing a breeze to pick up and whip through the grounds, sending his loose water color papers floating down the manicured lawn in a dance. 

She waits for a moment, for him to begin to chase after the papers, before she makes her move.  She only wants the one, and she’s determined to get it.

He disappears behind a tree, reaching for one of his papers, and she makes her move. She flies quickly to her desired piece, snatching it in both hands from the easel, and continuing on into the tree line, disappearing from sight.

Turning back languidly to the easel in shock, he moves slowly, not fully believing his eyes. Had he really just seen what he saw? Sure, he’s seen a lot, more than a lot, most of which can’t be explained – not that he’d want to know most times. But, did he really see her? A fleeting glance yes. Surely, it’s more than just his mind and the sun playing tricks on him. 

Shuffling the papers as he walks, Steve notices his most recent painting is gone. The one that was still secured on the easel. It’s absence being his only proof of his sanity. 

 

* * *

 

That night be barely sleeps. Flashes of her invade his mind: her legs, her hair, her soft otherworldly coloring, her wings. He finishes two sketches of her before his mind is calm enough to allow for sleep.

 

* * *

 

The next day, he returns to the garden as always. His habits set firmly in place. The only difference this time is the subject matter.

He moves about the garden as usual, hoping beyond hope to catch a glimpse of her again. His heart races as he sits down in the shade, near the forest’s edge. He takes out charcoals and begins a larger piece of the trees, hoping the elongated lines and textured bark will calm and distract his mind.

But then. He sees her again, peaking out from behind a large tree. He sucks in a breath and holds it, looking down quickly before flicking his eyes up to her once again. Slowly letting the breath out, he smiles to himself; she’s real.

 

* * *

 

Throughout the course of late spring and early summer, Steve fills several sketch books. Most are filled with flowers, plants, and landscapes, yes. But his favorites hold quick sketches of her, his faerie.

 

* * *

 

She’s sure he can’t see her, as she follows him through the gardens. Over time, she grows bolder. At first, she sits behind or above him, watching the muscles of his back and arm flex and move as he recreates both petal and leaf on the page. Then she ventures closer, reveling in the dark sandalwood and cedar smell that is uniquely him.  As more and more flora blooms in the garden, she grows more and more confident. Soon she takes to sitting across from him, or off to the side, but still staying hidden, preferring to enjoy the concentration and focus of his face while he works, occasionally catching his boyish smile. She still will take peaks at his work as she leaves. A part of her unable to quench the curiosity of him, regardless of the potential danger of his kind.

 

* * *

 

With each drawing, each painting, time has stood still for Steve. Those soothing moments helping him work through years of repressed rage and heart ache. 

The only problem with time standing still is that eventually it has to move again. And when that happens, it tends to speed up, and run off without you. This can definitely be said for Steve and his time at Tony’s guest cottage in the countryside. 

His birthday, two days before he has to leave, sneaks up on him as time blurs in a symphony of lush greenery and fluttering iridescent wings.

Going to his favorite spot in the garden, Steve tries to fully take in the garden. The plants, the shapes, the colors. Wishing to never leave, he hangs his head as he sets out a few pencils and two sketchbooks.

He waits for moment. Enjoying the peaceful silence and waiting. Waiting for that slight shiver to run down his spine when the breeze shifts and she seemingly appears out of thin air or, probably more likely, the depths of the forest.

He shuffles a few loose pages torn from various sketch books and wraps a ribbon around them.

Looking around one last time, he sighs and shakes his head. Taking his sketchbook in hand, he begins again to draw the lavender that he fell in love with earlier.

“Ya know… these last few weeks have been, well, they’ve been really helpful…” He drawls off, loosing his train of thought for a moment and focusing on a blossom. A small breeze kicks up and he knows… she’s here.

“Really, really helpful. More so than I thought possible. I came out here to find peace and quiet. And I found so much more than that.” He shifts, moving a bit and tapping his pencil on his thigh, a sudden nervous energy taking over him.

“I don’t want to leave, but in two days I have to. At least it feels like I should. I was born in the city. I’m used to it, that’s where everyone says I belong. But now I’m not so sure.”

Her heart pounds as she takes in his words. He’s leaving. He’s not staying like all the others that she sees and avoids. She moves closer to him, silent as ever, wishing to slow the steady tick of the time they have left.

“I know... I know I should leave.” He sighs, peaking over his shoulder and smiling when he hears a slight flutter, but sees nothing.

“And, uh, I know we haven’t talked…” He rests his left hand onto the bundle of sketches. “But I, I think you’ve helped me most of all.”

“I hope you don’t mind, but these are for you.” He says, holding the small bundle up over his shoulder. He puts it down on a large rock next to him. “I, uh, I. Listen I’m just going to come out and say this.”

“Somewhere along the line, in between the sketches and the sleepless nights…” Clearing his throat, he nervously chuckles. Trying his best to focus on the drawing but now failing. “I think I’m falling for you. And I don’t even know your name…”

“You’ve brought me, so much more than I could have hoped for. I wish I could keep you in my life. I can’t explain it. You’ve given me this calm, clarity which is what I came here for. I thought I’d find it in these gardens, thought I’d find it by drawing and… I found you instead. You’re more potent and more wonderful than any salve or anyone…”

She flutters out from behind a tree at his words, shocked at his revelation.

Steve turns and sees her, his boyish smile taking over his face as she doesn’t run away from him.  Her eyes land on the bundle and he lifts it, holding it out for her to take. 

Slowly, she moves towards him. Her fingers brush over his as she takes it.

He takes in her features, finally close enough for the first time to see all the flecks of color in her eyes.

“Hey.”

She stares at him, slowly smiling back.                                                        

He holds up his hand, palm facing her.

She brings up her hand, the tips of their fingers touch, slowly their hands become flush against each other.

Steve breathily laughs as their fingers entwine.

“Stay.” 


End file.
